


The Morning After

by rhythmoftherain



Category: Panic! at the Disco, Young Veins
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Anxiety, Boyfriends, Cocaine, Depression, Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, Friends With Benefits, Gay, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Lovers, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, One Night Stand, Ryden, Sad, Self Harm, Songfic, Suicide, anxious, depressed, next morning, trigger warning- read notes!!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-09-30 21:09:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17231240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhythmoftherain/pseuds/rhythmoftherain
Summary: What do you call a one night stand when this isn't the first time it happened, and it won't be the last either?





	The Morning After

**Author's Note:**

> heyo everyone. i have been very inactive due to my mental health (like very, very inactive). but i hope you enjoy this fic! it's inspired by "obsessions" by marina (aka marina and the diamonds but she just changed her name on spotify to marina). i'm writing it with proper capitalization this time (gasp) but i don't have the effort to do it in the notes. 
> 
> trigger warning list and a detailed description of the possible triggers is below.
> 
> okay, i'm done. you can read now. i hope you enjoy it or at least don't regret reading it. 
> 
> xo ryan
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING for: mentions of depression, anxiety, suicide, alcoholism, drug addiction, dub-con
> 
> it can be inferred that ryan has depression, anxiety, and suicidal thoughts. he also thinks about his addictions to cocaine and alcohol, but he does not actually drink/take either of these during the story. ryan and brendon both smoke cigarettes for a short amount of time. one part of the story uses a synonym that compares something to a noose. (BIG SPOILERS FOR ENDING)- there is some dub-con, where one of the characters touches/kisses the other without verbal consent, but it only lasts for a few lines. the end is up to your interpretation. however, if you have suicidal thoughts, you might interpret it as one of the characters committing suicide. he is described as staring at the ceiling and lying on his bed before the story ends. there are no mentions/descriptions of overdosing and self harm, but the end still might be interpreted like that. if you think this story will trigger you, PLEASE DO NOT READ IT!!!! there are so many other fics you could read without being triggered!!!! stay safe loves

He wakes up.

Wherever he is, it's warm. He's not at home. "Home" is the freezing apartment that always smells of weed and suicide. "Home" isn't even the right word for it. A bed isn't a bed if you cry yourself to sleep every night, and home isn't a home if you don't want to wake up there.

He sits up, tired hands rustling the frayed bed sheet he was lying on. The room is unfamiliar, and he doesn't know how he ended up here. The sunlight streaming through the windows illuminates the wooden floors and the paintings lining the white walls. The ceilings are high, and the room is homey and cinnamon-smelling. He didn't know New York had room for a suburban wonderland

He wants to remember why he's here, besides the obvious. Who wanted drugs? Who did he owe a favor? Who offered him coke? He tries to remember who's sleeping next to him, but doesn't look over. Doesn't want to look at the memories from the night before, doesn't want to ruin his last moment of peace.

He only remembers the tastes of tequila and anger, jager and betrayal. It's all the same. Every night's the same.

He throws the blanket off his legs, trying not to disturb yesterday's catch. His inner thighs are lined with bitemarks and he's probably bruised somewhere. When he stands, he can feel the burn of fresh scratches on his back. He wants to close his eyes and cuddle up to whoever's still sleeping, pretend that he is happily married like most people his age. Pretend that he isn't just a body dressed with the memories of one night stands, stained velvet and lace that he resents. He wants the dark circles under his eyes to fade and his hair to lose its grease. He wants his eyes to have a spark again as he thinks about being alive. He wants to feel something besides regret. He wants to be anywhere else but a stranger's bed.

But he's tethered to the life he's made for himself, tethered to what he destroyed here and what he has to rebuild.

He stands and pulls on his pair of boxers that were flung onto the floor in the chaos of very late last night (or very early this morning). Next to them are a pair of black skinny jeans, and he puts those on too. Doesn't want to give the impression that he's up for seconds.

He reaches into his back pocket and stops frowning for an instant because he remembered cigarettes. He never smiles, only gets less sad enough to stop frowning for a minute or two. Never longer. 

Long, pale fingers reach into the pack as he pulls out a cigarette. He always craves a smoke the morning after, but never remembers a pack. Except for this time.

He opens the window next to where he slept and lights up, leaning against the windowsill so the smoke doesn't pollute the room. He doesn't want to wake them up because he doesn't want to go home. He can't get kicked out if they're still asleep.

The dark smoke lazily floats outside, fogging up visions of apartment buildings and couples holding hands, obscuring a life that could've been his. It would hurt, looking at what his life was supposed to be, without a lense. The smoke lets him jeer and laugh at the life he once wanted to lead.

The fire dances on the tip of the cigarette, and he wants to let it fester out, let it burn his mouth, his face, his body. He wants to watch the flame consume his body, but it would be unfair to the kid still sleeping in the bed beside him. He's an asshole, but he's not that cruel. Not yet. Give him a few years and he'll probably get there.

He takes a last drag and lets the charcoal fill his lungs, lets the smoke take away all that he's supposed to feel. He stubs it out with his finger and drops it onto the pavement below. A car drives over it, then another, then ten more. By the end of the day, a thousand cars will have rubbed the cigarette out of existence. None of them will realize they ran over the carefully placed ashes of a boy. 

He can feel a slight ache rising in his bones, a noose tightening around a body that hasn't gotten its fix yet. Fuck, he better hope he has coke at home.  

He sighs, as a rustle sounds from the bed. He makes the mistake of turning around, makes the fatal mistake of realizing who was in the bed. A familiar face stares back, one he'd like to forget. The very person that made him is the monstrosity he is today.

"Ryan?"

He hasn't been called that in a long, long time. It's easier to pretend it isn't you, you who is having sex for drugs and hooking up for money, when you don't tell them your name. So he never does.

"Why are you here?" Brendon asks, a sleepy voice that makes him remember and want to forget.

Ryan looks at him and throws his hands up in defeat. "I don't know. I don't know anything anymore." He always forgets how honest Brendon makes him.

Brendon studies him, haziness disappearing like fog does when the sun streams through.

Ryan forgot how his golden brown eyes always drawed him in, made it impossible to resist. The sun suddenly illuminates his eyes, and it illuminates last night, and it all starts coming back to both of them. The drinks, the drugs. How Brendon couldn't stop staring at him. How they fought and then laughed and convinced themselves it was love, that this time it would work out. Just like every other time. Just like every other night. But this time, Ryan made the foolish mistake of not checking who was lying next to him. He didn't formulate what to say. He didn't leave before Brendon woke up. He opened the window and lit up. He messed up.

Brendon climbs across the bed, hair impossibly messy but still perfect, looking tired but still mesmerizing. He sits down on the floor next to Ryan and leans into the window, resting his head on the window sill.

“Give me a cigarette."

The edge of venom in his voice takes Ryan by surprise, and he complies, like he always had, like he always will. He pulls two out of his pack and lights both up, taking a drag of his own before handing the other to Brendon. He looks better than he did last time, more angular, more handsome, more serious. More grown up. He smells like pine and sadness and growing up but not wanting too. He smells more like home than anything else Ryan knows. He smells more like hell than anything else Ryan knows. 

Brendon laughed, cold and cruel yet so inviting, as he took the cigarette, and Ryan was once again taken by surprise. It was definitely aimed at him. The soft care of the boy he was supposed to love had rotted and curdled, turning into the malice before him. “Here we are again.” He took a long drag, staring at Ryan. “You gonna obsess over this again, Ross?”

Cold and calculating didn’t suit Brendon, Ryan realized, and stubbed out his own cigarette before memories faded into nightmares. “Frankly, I just wanna get out of here,” he said, spotting his red t shirt on the ground. He just wanted to get out of here, return to a home that was hated and predictable. It's easier to deal with predictable hate than spontaneous love. 

Brendon followed his gaze and grabbed it before he could even start to think. “Don’t even think about it,” Brendon sneered. “You owe me.”

Ryan rolled his eyes. “I️ owe you nothing.” He doesn’t get close enough to anyone to let himself owe anything to him. He wants no commitments, no strings tying him to anyone. He owes you one night, and that is all. He’ll be gone when you wake. “Keep the shirt if you want. It’ll be a nice souvenir,” he says before standing.

Brendon glares at him. His hair is different now- it’s short on the sides and pushed back on top. It suits him. Distantly, Ryan remembers pushing his hand through the soft brown locks and groaning into them. But he pushes the thought away, like he does with all his memories. He doesn’t know how he ever managed to love this monster. He doesn’t know why he still does.

“You can’t leave,” Brendon says suddenly. “It’s not fair.” He sounds like he did three years ago, when they first met and Ryan was about to leave the bar without him. When their lips first touched, their skin first met, their eyes first locked. He felt for the first time that night. 

He sounds like he did last time, about three months ago, and all the times before that. They're always drawn to each other, just for a good fuck, and they're in ruins the morning after. They're a one night stand that happens again and again, like they can only go so long before fucking again. It's animalistic, their relationship. Yet Ryan is still in a love that he can't fall out of. Not that he would ever admit that to anyone, including himself.

He would tell Brendon, but Ryan's never been anything more than something for him to use.

Suddenly, his head aches. Fuck. He hasn't had a hit in at least 12 hours. Shit, he's going to feel so awful. He would feel bad for himself, but Ryan thinks it's his fault for become addicted in the first place. Cocaine just makes it easier to be anyone but himself, to just be a body being fucked. But his ass isn't sore, so Brendon must've been the bottom last night. Ryan knows he is undoubtedly pissed about that, since Brendon's ego makes him always feel like he should be more dominant.  

His thoughts come to an end as Brendon repeats, "It's not fair." Ryan gives him a questioning glance, but suddenly another cigarette is out and Brendon is pinning Ryan to the bed. Ryan's legs are half hanging off, and Brendon straddles him as he leans in close. "You owe me, Ross. Do you know how upsetting it is that you fucked me? I should be fucking you, you little slut. You owe me. You need to let me fuck you. Otherwise, all of this would've been in vain." Fuck. He should've know this was happening. It would be so easy to give in but so much more difficult to recover.

Ryan can feel his cock hardening just from Brendon's words. He is so screwed. "Get off of me."

Brendon grinds down, eyes darkening, and Ryan lets out a gasp underneath him. Fuck, fuck. He's in trouble. He's in so much trouble. "I know you like that," he says, staring at Ryan's lips. He grinds down again, harder this time, and Ryan is unable to control his moan.

"Brendon, stop- fuck-" 

But he doesn't have time to finish before Brendon attacks his mouth, lips bruising against Ryan's. Ryan tries to mumble in protest, but that just lets Brendon slip his tongue in. His mouth is angry and ruthless, like he hates Ryan, which he does. He can't help but kiss back, and Brendon groans into his mouth. Ryan's hands are in his hair- just as soft as he imagined- and he can feel Brendon's dick getting hard. He's still completely naked, but Ryan isn't much better. 

Brendon moves a hair to Ryan's hair as one slips down to his boxers, and fuck, he is so screwed. Fingers slide across his dick, and Brendon laughs darkly against his mouth. "You're already so hard. Such a slut for me, Ross." The way Ryan bucks up into his touch only makes Brendon's eyes grow darker, as he grabs Ryan hips and makes circles on his hip bones.

Ryan wants to protest, but can't, can't do anything but bite back Brendon's name as he squeezes Ryan's dick and makes him regret being born.

Brendon pulls off his jeans and boxers in a smooth movement, staring at Ryan's dick. His hands brush Ryan's thighs, and his breathe is warm against his balls. And then Ryan realizes.

He can't.  

Last time he slept with Brendon, he was a mess. He thought they had something, misled by his lover's kind words and gentle promises. They exchanged numbers and Ryan thought that he was finally getting somewhere. Finally, the boy he pined after for years would love him.

So Ryan called him the next day. And again, and again, and again. He texted Brendon, simple messages, sweet compliments. His phone told him every single one was "read" but no answer ever appeared. He didn't know it was so possible to feel so heartbroken, but he should've known better. Shouldn've known, based on the last thousand times, based on the lies whispered by perfect pink lips.

He realizes this, and comes back to the moment, finally realizes that that he has been making out with Brendon while lost in thought. He can feel a hand slowly rubbing his cock and wants God to kill him right on the spot. But he pushes Brendon's angry mouth and hurried, minor chord hands off his mouth, off his body, off, off, off. His dick is so hard, goddamnit, but he'd rather die of embarrassment due to a hard-on in public than have to deal with this again. "Don't fucking touch me."

Brendon stares at him, eyes burning and half-lidded. "I will fucking touch you if I want too." He grabs Ryan's wrists and pins them above his head in a slick movement, making their lips meet again. And, fuck, it feels so good, feels so right. Shit, Brendon knows how much Ryan likes being held down, likes being dominated, and he can feel blood rushing down, down, down. Brendon pulls back and reaches down to run a finger over Ryan's asshole. It's all too much, all too little, and Ryan knees him in the balls and scrambles off the bed.

Brendon falls to the side, groaning, clutching his bare dick. "What was that for?"

Ryan shakes his head, sighs, does anything but look at the beautiful boy sprawled out on the bed. He picks up his t-shirt, that Brendon threw somewhere in the chaos of the past few minutes, and pulls in on over his head. He runs a hand through tousled hair and wonders why God hates him so. Why the heavenly beings above think he's just the perfect punching bag. Because he's sick of it.

"Just," his breaths come out slow and steady because he forces them to, not because he is calm, he is very far from calm, "I can't keep doing this, Bren. This is too much. I'm sick of this, sick of you."  _Sick of me_. His head pounds, both from his soberness and Brendon. It's too much, always had been, always will be.

Pulling on his boxers and then his jeans, he looks around for anything he would've brought last night. Brendon stares at him emptily, mouth a straight line, body tense. Everything that he shouldn't be. Somber never looks good on him, but aggressive doesn't either.

"I'm sorry," he mumurs, voice soft velvet. But Ryan knows that, once you touch velvet too many times, it becomes painful and prickly, and he can't. Can not. Must not. "i just... I miss you so much, Ry."

His heart stops the second he hears the nickname. No one calls him that. No one even calls him Ryan. He tells them a new name every night, a new identity, a new face that he cycles through week after week after week. Brendon was the only one who ever called him Ry. The only one who got close enough to call him that.

His own sharp inhale is enough to stop him from falling in love again, and he scrambles back, scrambles back to the world where he doesn't love Brendon. Does not, does not, does not. "Must be nice." His voice is cold, but it's the only front he can put up before he melts into Brendon. Fuck. He needs to get out of here. "I gotta go," he says, no looking at Brendon, not looking anywhere but the beige carpet under his feet.

"Why?" 

Ryan doesn't know, never knows. Doesn't know why he's alive now. Doesn't know how to get out of here, get out of anywhere, get out of his life. He can't be honest. His dad always told him that, when you,'re honest, people take advantage of that. They use your honest against you. 

His dad was an alcoholic.

Like father, like son.

He would be proud.

Then Brendon has a hand on his shoulder, is turning around, eyes asking questions Ryan can't answer. He's pulled on a pair of boxers and a loose t-shirt, and he looks amazing. Always has, always will. 

"Listen, Ryan, I- I really like you. I, well, I always have," Brendon admits, shuffling his feet. "I know I've been a bitch, but please,  _please_ , just give me a chance. I can be good for you. I can be an amazing boyfriend." It sounds like he's begging, and something in Ryan's brain thinks it's pathetic. 

But his brain is hypocritical. 

The change in tone also comes as a shock. Brendon went from treating him like an object to a lover, and Ryan can't comprehend the act. How is this soft, gentle boy the same one that was all angles and sharp tongues earlier?

Even if they did date, Ryan wouldn't be able to tell if he was a good boyfriend. It's hard to compare something when it's the first time you've ever experienced it. He wonders how many boyfriends Brendon has had. He doesn't want to know.

He wonders how many one nights stands Brendon has had. He wants to know that even less.  

"I can't," he says, firm. "Nothing between us has never worked out."

Brendon's eyebrows knit together, and, oh, fuck, Ryan didn't want him to be upset. How can he have so much pity for someone who doesn't seem to care? "But-"

"You basically just said what you said last time." He glares, eyes stone compared to Brendon's eyes of butter. And he looks so sad, like his heart has been shattered, and- well, it serves him right. But at the same time, Ryan just wants to kiss the pain away. "And then you never responded to any of my texts."

Brendon's face has crumbled, fallen apart. All of his defenses failed, and Ryan can feel himself falling in love for the hundredth time. He wishes hearts had eyes. "I'm sorry, okay? It wasn't pathetic that you texted me that much, I just-"

"Lemme guess. You just didn't want to respond." Then he is flung back into his head and watches his life like a movie, detached from the reality around him. He knows he's the one saying the words, and he knows he's the one who pushes past Brendon, out the door, down the street, as he calls his name. But he doesn't hear and he doesn't see.

"Ryan! Ryan, please!" echos in his ears as he walks to a bar. The memory of Brendon's face echos in his head. So does his apartment number. 

And then he realizes what's happening. The whisky in his throat burns, and when he looks, the sky has turned a dark gray, and he hopes that Brendon is still home.

He runs down the street, regretting everything, heart still breaking yet being mended at the same time.

He loves Brendon. He has nothing to lose. Heartbreak now isn't anything compared to heartbreak later. They are one in the same.

He walks into the apartment building, speeding into an elevator, pressing number 3 from Brendon's floor. He gets weird looks, but fuck it,  _fuck it_ , he finally has a chance to be something more than a fading face. He is going to milk that for all it is worth.

The elevator doors opens, and he almost knows someone over, and he heads down the hallway. His feet blur into the carpet that blurs into his thoughts, a mantra of  _Brendon, Brendon, Brendon_ that is pleading for forgiveness.

Fuck, he hates that asshole but he loves him at the same time. At least he can try to get someone to love him in return.

He knocks on Brendon's door. Once, twice, three times. No one answers. He opens the door anyway, needing to see where his future is lying.

Brendon's apartment is small, a couch in front of a little TV that opens to a living room. He disregards this as he runs for his life, runs to his love, runs to the fucking ass that ruined his entire being yet made him live in the first place.

He opens the bedroom door, and he's lying there. Brendon is lying on the middle of the bed.

"Bren?" Ryan calls, and a smile leaks into his voice. He's finally with someone who at least cares, at least a bit.

He walks to the bed, and memories from the night before are conjured, laughing into tan skin, lips meeting in smiles.

And he stops.

Brendon is staring at the ceiling. His eyes are empty, just like Ryan's heart, as they both forget how to breathe. 

**Author's Note:**

> i'm sorry that you had to read that lmaooo there are so many better ways to spend your time. i might make a follow up to this, but i'm not sure. i hope you enjoyed!! please feel free to leave any comments so i can improve for the next time.
> 
> xo ryan


End file.
